Chocolate Bars, Monkey Bars
by clevermycroft
Summary: When Mycroft Holmes was six years old he met someone he didn't mind sharing his chocolate with.


Mycroft Holmes was six years, three months and forty two days old when he first met the love of his life. Of course, at the time he didn't know he was meeting the love of his life. At the time, all he knew was that everyone was paying more attention to his new little brother than they were to him and that he was sick of it.

And by everyone, he meant _everyone. _Mummy, his nanny Ms Carol, the servants, the cook, even his dog Paxton, they all seemed to adore the child. Even his father doted on _it_ whenever he was home for longer than five minutes. Mycroft couldn't understand why. Sherlock didn't do anything, as far as he could see. He couldn't even hold his own head up without assistance. He just sat there blinking and yawning and crying. Oh, the crying. The never ending crying.

Why did no-one else seem to mind when Sherlock woke the entire household at ungodly hours screaming? They all thought it was positively adorable.

However, Mycroft was the man of the house when his father was away (which was always), so he'd learned not to make fuss. It would have been irresponsible and childish to misbehave simply because he wasn't the centre of attention anymore. That's what his father had told him and he was always inclined to believe his father…

But you can only push a boy so far.

They were in the market when Mycroft decided he was fed up. They had travelled to London, just him, Ms Carol and… the baby. When the groceries failed to be delivered one unseasonably cool Saturday morning, Ms Carol had telephoned the store manager only to receive an excuse as to why it wasn't possible. Ms Carol had shouted down the phone at him for a decent twenty minutes before slamming the receiver down in a rage. "Come along," she'd snapped furiously and packed both Holmes boys up in the family car (a black series two Daimler Sovereign Jaguar).

Mycroft had never been to town before, so it was a fairly exciting journey. He'd never so much as been past the ornate gates at the end of the driveway. He looked out the window and watched as cows and sheep whizzed by and tried to imagine what they would look like close up. They probably weren't the most attractive creatures, he decided and made a mental note to consult his encyclopaedia when he got home. He snuggled back down in his new beige overcoat his father had sent him from Italy and looked over at Sherlock, who was being nursed on Ms Carol's knee, only to find his little brother already looking at him.

While everything about Mycroft seemed to be big (his mother called it 'puppy fat'), everything about Sherlock was small. He was small anyway, being a baby they tended to be quite little, but wrapped up in thick downy powder blue blankets he looked positively microscopic. Except his eyes. Sherlock's eyes were unnervingly big and framed with soot coloured lashes, peering out at Mycroft beneath his cap.

A staring contest ensued.

Sherlock won.

Sherlock always won.

By the time they reached the market, Mycroft's eyes were so dry he swore they made a scratching noise when he blinked. Ms Carol strapped Sherlock into his pram and took hold of Mycroft firmly by the hand, barking orders to the driver that Mycroft didn't listen to, and together they went inside.

Mycroft wasn't sure what to expect, but he thought a market would have been a bit more exciting than it turned out to be. It was just a bunch of fruit and vegetables displayed in crates and surrounded by plastic grass and smelt strongly of an orchard.

He was disappointed there wasn't, at least, a pony.

Ms Carol dragged him through the store muttering under her breath irritably and stopped in front of a bushel of apples, which she started examining fanatically.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. He hated apples. He turned his attention to the display of confectionary across the aisle. He could see the alluring red wrapper and yellow text of his favourite Banjo bars shining down at him from high on a shelf. He bit his lip.

"Ms Carol," Mycroft said, tugging the woman's skirt without taking his eyes off the chocolate. "Ms Carol, can I-"

At that moment, Sherlock decided to start crying.

"Not now, Mycroft," Ms Carol said harshly, brushing the boy's hand away and started fussing with Sherlock's blankets looking flustered.

"But-"

"I said not now!" she snapped. "Go get me some carrots or something."

Mycroft blinked hard as his eyes started to sting. He did not like crying and he knew tears wouldn't solve anything. Only Sherlock could get away with that party trick now. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, everyone's favourite. Mycroft used to be the favourite. Everything had changed so quickly and the only variable was the baby.

So, in a spontaneous fit of resentment, Mycroft decided to rebel.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft casually strolled up to the shelf where his target lay. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Ms Carol was still distracted by the screaming baby, he reached his pudgy hand up and snatched one of the chocolate bars from the pile. He quickly stuffed the stolen sweet into his jacket pocket and marched smartly out of the shop while Ms Carol was still trying to silence Sherlock.

Mycroft fled the scene of the crime, retreating to the playground across the road. His heart still throwing itself against his ribcage, Mycroft looked both ways and hurried across the street, the stolen chocolate bar knocking against his hip and feeling twice as heavy as it did in the shop.

At the playground gate, Mycroft stopped to catch his breath. Looking around to make sure the police weren't following him, the small thief sighed. Reaching into his pocket, Mycroft retrieved the chocolate bar and just held it with both hands. His head was swimming with adrenaline and his chubby knees felt so weak beneath him he feared he was going to collapse as the realisation of what just happened hit him like a ton of bricks.

He'd just committed a felony.

What was Mummy going to say?

What was his _father _going to say?

His stomach churned at the thought and the idea of eating the chocolate made him feel sick. What was he going to do? He was a criminal now. He was living outside the law. He considered fleeing further. Did the park count as a part of the crime scene? The words crime scene flashed across his mind and he shivered.

"Hullo."

The voice was so loud and so close to Mycroft's ear he gave a shout of surprise and jumped what felt like twenty feet in the air. He spun around on the heel of his moccasins and came face to face with a boy of about five with a mass of curly hair the colour of wet sand and huge brown eyes so dark they could have easily been mistaken for black. He was wearing a pair of dungarees with dark green grass stains on the knees, a sky blue jumper about two sizes too big for him with a picture of a dinosaur eating toast on it and a pair of bright red wellington boots on his feet. He was small and skinny, probably looking even smaller and skinnier standing next to Mycroft, with pointy elbows and smudge of dirt on his nose.

Needless to say, Mycroft was appalled.

"Sorry," said the grubby child, grinning widely at Mycroft to show a missing front tooth. "I didn't mean to scare ya. No-one ever, _ever _comes in here and I have to wait here 'til mum finishes work 'cos she doesn't want me in the kitchen anymore 'cos she says I'm dirty. Is that a Banjo bar?"

The boy had been talking so quickly and dizzyingly, Mycroft didn't hear the question for a moment. He only noticed the child looking expectantly from Mycroft's face to the chocolate in his hands and after a rather long pause where his brain tried to catch up with the filthy child's mouth, Mycroft finally managed to answer.

"Um, yes?" he said shyly. He wasn't used to dealing with other children, especially not those who talked faster than he could think.

Gregory's smile widened so his enormous eyes crinkled in the corners. "I like Banjo bars, I've not had one in ages on account of my tooth havin' fallen out and Grandma says I shouldn't eat chocolate because all my other tooths'll fall out too and then I'll have to get pretend ones like she's got, y'know the type you take out at night so ya dun swallow 'em? But I think she's makin' it up 'cos she dun wanna share. I'm Gregory, what's your name?"

The Holmes boy blinked. "Mycroft," he said uncertainly.

"That's a funny name," he remarked and before Mycroft could have the time to feel hurt the smaller boy was bouncing around him like a vulture on a pogo stick. "I like your shoes, can I try 'em on? My feet are clean, honest, or I can wash 'em if you'd rather. They're ever so nice shoes I wouldn't wanna spoil 'em. You look rich, are you rich? Do you want to race to the swings? No, the monkey bars? I love the monkey bars, they're my very favourite after the swings. Do you want to race?"

The truth was simple. No, Mycroft didn't want to race and _no_, he did not want this boy trying on his shoes. He didn't know if he was rich, but he knew he lived in a big house with a duck pond and a music room where he could play the piano all day long if he wanted. Also, he knew he didn't have to hang about a park all day long waiting for his mother to finish working in a kitchen.

"C'mon, let's go climbing," Gregory said cheerfully, smiling at Mycroft and completely oblivious to the other boy's discomfort.

"Um, I can't," Mycroft told him. "This is a new jacket. Mummy would be cross if I got it dirty."

_She's going to be crosser when she finds out her son's a criminal._

He brushed the voice away.

"Oh, well," Gregory said. "You can just watch me climb."

And before Mycroft could protest, he was away bounding towards the monkey bars like a ball.

Mycroft sighed and followed grudgingly.

"Where'd ya get the chocolate?" Gregory asked, clambering up the bars with practised ease.

"Um," Mycroft stammered. "My mother bought it for me."

"Where's she then?"

"In the shop," Mycroft lied again, gesture over his shoulder bitterly, "With my brother."

"D'ya have a brother then?"

Mycroft looked at the boy and wondered how anyone could be so dense. "Isn't that what I just said?"

"Do you have a dad?" Gregory asked, ignoring Mycroft's response as he hung upside down from the monkey bars like an actual monkey.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose and considered the percentage chance he would fall and break a limb. The Holmes boy leaned against the slide and tried not to think of it. "Of course I have a dad," he answered.

"Does 'e have a job?"

"My father's a diplomat," he said, puffing his chest out proudly.

"Wassat?"

"Well," Mycroft began in a matter-of-fact tone, parroting his mother, "it's a very important person who has to be away from home a lot due to business."

"What type of business?" Gregory asked, sounding keen as he swung down from the monkey bars in an amazing example of acrobatic skill.

Mycroft faltered. "Er," he stammered, "the important type."

"Maybe my dad's a dipamat too," Gregory wondered aloud, abandoning Mycroft at the slide and tumbling across the grass towards the swings. "He's never home either. I don't think he's ever been to home before."

"Dip-_lo_-mat," Mycroft corrected automatically, following the younger boy at a trot. "You mean you don't know what your dad is as his work?"

"Nah," Gregory shrugged, clambering on to the swing and gripping the chains tightly in his tiny hands. "Me mum says he's real busy though, that's why he never comes to see us so it must be a real important."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and watched the small boy start pumping his spindly legs in effort to propel the swing forward. The chains creaked dangerously as he picked up speed, but Gregory seemed unaware. Mycroft thought for a moment and made a deduction.

"Do you know where your dad is at all?"

Gregory skidded to a halt, the heels of his wellies dragging through the dirt. He hung his head and didn't say anything.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

There was an awkward pause between them, as Gregory continued staring at the ground and Mycroft shuffled uncomfortably. He wasn't sure what to say. That never happened. He always knew what to say, his mother had been drilling a list of appropriate responses into his head since as long as he could remember and none of them seemed to fit this situation.

Before he could say anything at all, Gregory had jumped off the swing and had grabbed Mycroft's hand.

"Don't feel sorry for me," he said, his huge eyes flashing angrily. "Everyone always feels sorry for me all the time, 'cos of me being poor and all, but don't. Promise?"

Mycroft hadn't been feeling sorry for Gregory. He hadn't known he was supposed to. Instead he had been feeling in awe of him. This boy was strong and brave and intimidating and everything Mycroft wished he could be. He didn't let things get to him and Mycroft felt a wave of respect wash over him.

However, he deduced it would be unwise to tell the little boy that so instead he just nodded. "I promise."

Gregory nodded and smiled and every trace of that anger vanished just as quickly as it had appeared. He let Mycroft's hand drop and the Holmes boy's fingers felt cold suddenly.

"I'm going to find him one day," he said determinedly. "I'll get an important job, like your dad does, and find him."

"Do you know his name?"

"Course I do," scoffed Gregory. "It's the same as mine, innit? It's not easy to forget."

"Well, policemen have access to everyone's files and things," Mycroft explained in what he hoped was an encouraging tone. "So if you have someone's name, you can go in and look them up in the big box of things. Maybe you should be a policeman?"

"A policeman," Gregory whispered, a faraway look in his eyes as if he'd just said "A wizard".

"I'll help you look if you like," Mycroft said keenly. "I like looking for things."

The younger boy suddenly looked suspicious, squinting at him as if he were a jeweller appraising a diamond. He leaned in until his face was so close to Mycroft's their noses bumped together. Mycroft fought the urge to push him away and scrub his face clean on his sleeve.

"How come you're so small," Gregory said in a hushed whisper. Unsurprisingly his breath smelt like chocolate, "but you know so big?"

Mycroft didn't know the right response to this either, so he tried not to answer. "Do you want to race?" he asked instead and immediately regretted it.

Gregory's face lit up like a firework. "Readysetgo!" he shouted and took off at high speed across the park. Mycroft gritted his teeth and chased after him.

Mycroft had never been one for running. He hated it actually. He didn't see the point of getting all hot and sweaty and moving so quickly you couldn't feel the ground beneath your feet. But now, flying across the grass with Gregory, he could see the point. It was exhilarating. The wind rushed in his ears, drowning out all rational thought.

It was magic.

They hadn't designated a finishing line for the race, so the two boys ended up just running around on the grass in circles, laughing and shouting. They ran until neither of them could breathe and Mycroft's two left feet finally got the better of him and he tripped.

Sprawled across the grass in a heap, Mycroft vaguely wondered why he was laughing instead of crying. Maybe it was because Gregory had landed next to him, giggling like a mad person. Maybe laughter was contagious, he thought.

By the time they finished laughing and got back up, Mycroft noticed a grass stain on the sleeve of his Italian coat.

"Oh, no!" Mycroft whined, examining the patch of green on his cuff.

"Is that bad?"

"Very."

"Oh, no!"

"Indeed."

"But, look," Gregory said, raising his knee up so it was level with Mycroft's wrist. Their twin grass stains smiled up at him. "Snap."

Mycroft couldn't help but laugh.

Just as he was beginning to enjoy himself, there was a gut-wrenching shriek from across the street.

"MYCROFT HOLMES."

"Oh dear."

"Whossat?" Gregory asked.

"Ms Carol," Mycroft said. "My nanny. I sort of ran off, so she's probably a bit upset."

"Sounds it, yeah," Gregory mumbled. "Does this mean you have to go?"

Mycroft swallowed. "I think so."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Pause.

"Will you come back?"

"I doubt it," Mycroft sighed. "She's going to be cross."

Gregory lower lip quivered.

"Hey," Mycroft said, hooking an arm around the little kid's shoulders. "Don't cry."

"I ain't crying," Gregory sniffled. "My eyes are just sad."

Mycroft suddenly had an idea.

"Here, Gregory," he said, reaching into his pocket and retrieving the stolen Banjo bar and offering it to the increasingly snotty child. "Cheer up."

Gregory continued to sniffle, but his hands closed around the chocolate.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

He let his arm drop from around Gregory's shoulders and he started towards the gate to face his doom.

As he was being marched back to the car with Ms Carol scolding him and threatening all kinds of horrible things, Mycroft looked back towards the playground. Gregory was sitting atop the monkey bars, his legs dangling over the edge and chocolate all around his mouth. He spotted Mycroft and immediately leapt to his feet, balancing on the bars like a tightrope walker, waving frantically.

Mycroft beamed and waved back.

They waved until the car disappeared around the corner and vanished from sight.

They sped homeward and Ms Carol was still shouting at him, but Mycroft only caught snippets of what she was saying because he was busy staring out the window thinking of Gregory and stroking the grass stain on his sleeve.

"Totally irresponsible! Complete disregard! Look at your clothes! Stains! Washing!"

He dearly wanted to see the raggedy boy again, but after considering all the components, he didn't hold much hope. He had tried to explain about the playground and the swings, but Ms Carol hadn't wanted to hear any of it.

"Worried sick! What will your mother say?"

He was thankful, however, that no-one knew about the chocolate bar. That little crime would be a secret he would take to the grave.

"Never in all my days have I seen anything like it. Never again!"

And she was right, Mycroft never again returned to that playground and after a while he allowed other things to enter his mind, like school work and keeping the country at peace with surrounding nations. He never forgot Gregory and the chocolate though. Even when more important data entered his mind, he refrained from deleting that particular unseasonably chilly Saturday morning from his memory despite it no longer being relevant to anything.

It took twenty-nine years, seven months and thirty-one days for the information to become relevant again. Once again, they met at a crime scene and Sherlock was the reason Mycroft was there. However this time the crime was much more severe than a stolen chocolate bar.

Mycroft recognised him the moment he saw him. His hair was silver now, like starlight, and his clothes were clean if a tad ruffled. His eyes were the exactly same. So brown they were almost black and crinkly in the corners.

"Good evening, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Gregory Lestrade spun on his to face Mycroft. He looked bewildered. "Er, hello," he said nervously, looking Mycroft up and down. "How do you-"

"I believe we've met before," Mycroft said with a smile, holding out his right hand.

"Have we?" Gregory's eyes frowned but his mouth smiled. "Sorry, I-"

"It was a long time ago, I'm unsurprised you don't remember."

Gregory took Mycroft's hand uncertainly and shook.

"Thank you for looking after my brother."

"Brother?"

"The one over there," Mycroft said, gesturing with his umbrella, "In the shock blanket."

Gregory seemed to forget he had lungs and choked on the air he was in the process of breathing. "Sherlock's your brother?" he gagged.

"Unfortunately," Mycroft smiled. "Thank you for looking after him."

That familiar grin Mycroft remembered so well spread across Gregory's face and Mycroft was relieved to see the policeman had grown all his teeth back. "You're welcome," he murmured, studying Mycroft's face as if he recognised him. "And it's nice to meet you again. Whoever you are."

Mycroft chuckled. "Hungry?"

"Starving."

"Dinner?"

"Alright."

They walked towards Mycroft's car, not noticing they were still holding hands.


End file.
